


thus with a kiss

by thedemonhammer



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Secret Identities, Beast-tamer!Victor, Elemental!Yuri, Long-haired!Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Poison-immune!Yuuri, Romeo & Juliet (sort of), Smut in future chapters, Three Dark Crowns AU, Victor and Yuuri fall in love, Yakov is done with everyone, Yurio just tries to make it through the day, and are not aware they're meant to kill each other, dark!victor, eros!Yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedemonhammer/pseuds/thedemonhammer
Summary: The world is unfair. The gods are not kind. And sometimes you fall in love with the person you’re meant to kill.





	1. never was a story of more woe

**Author's Note:**

> Good morning, everyone! It's been a while, but once again, I'm back with another _Yuri!!! On Ice_ fan fiction. This time it's a fantasy/Romeo  & Juliet/ _Three Dark Crowns_ AU. It's a longer piece that I've been working on for a couple of weeks now. Work has been a bit of a killer, and hasn't left me with much time to do the things I enjoy—writing fan fiction, drawing, playing _Tales of Vesperia_.
> 
> However, work is essential so that I can afford my apartment, and so I must soldier on. In the meantime, I've been working on the new chapter my No.6 zombie AU fan fiction " _ripped apart_ ", and the chapters to this story.
> 
> This is a multi-chapter story that focuses on a slight _Romeo & Juliet_ AU, inspired by the novel _Three Dark Crowns_ by Kendare Blake, with just a little bit of _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_ mixed in.
> 
> My brother and I kicked around the idea of a fantasy AU in which Yuuri, Viktor, and Yuri/Yurio are destined to fight one another over the right to be king and somehow along the way, Yuuri and Viktor fall in love, unaware of each other's true identity.
> 
> Before we begin, I would like to extend a huge thank-you to all my followers, and to everyone who has stuck with me through my various stories and updates. After this chapter is published, my goal is to update " _ripped apart_ " and then publish the next few chapters of this story. After that, my _Miraculous Ladybug_ fan fiction, "Miscommunication", will be updated, as well. I'm hoping you all will look forward to it!
> 
> Thank you, everyone, and I hope that you'll enjoy this prologue. Rather short, but hey, every story must begin somewhere. Please enjoy!

**Prologue**

 

**~ * ~ * ~ * ~**

 

_February 1, Year 368_

_Bhelemon_

 

**~ * ~ * ~ * ~**

 

A thick fog veiled the killing ground, slipping in through the arms of the bare trees. The sun had begun to set long ago, bathing the world in a comforting golden glow. Thick, wet earth stretched as far as Yuuri could see, a trail of footsteps left by heavy boots scampering off into the mess of fog. Trees rose like black pillars. Behind them, somewhere in the impressively thick crush of the forest, his enemies lurked—both of them, poised to strike him dead.

 

Yuuri pressed on. He had many things to be concerned about with both of them: one wielded beasts like a whip, commanding all but the comforting weight of the serpent wrapped around Yuuri’s wrist. The other held the elements like the hilt of a blade. And Yuuri—exhausted, furious, poison-immune Yuuri Katsuki—had only a hissing _kobura_ , an arsenal of poisons tucked in his tattered black cloak, and a secret-weapon.

 

_Bhelemon_ had come too soon. Four of the Five Gods were not on his side. Yuuri would be struck dead unless he struck first. His heavy boots sunk into the muck, thick squelching sounds announcing his location. He marched with his head held high; he was a King’s Chosen, and even if he was going to be struck dead by one of the other two King’s Chosen, he would die with dignity.

 

Fog blinded his mahogany eyes; wet droplets peppered his black hair, shoved out of his face with gel. He’d been presented to the public moments before walking into the Forests of _Bhelemon_ , and he’d had to keep up a powerful appearance.

 

Limping through the mud, he moved in a slow circle, hand resting on top of the _kobura_ ’s head. His chest heaved in the rhythm of a distant bird’s call. The sound pounded in his ears as he braced himself for his final stand. Nausea rolled through him as his heart skipped a beat. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his stomach twisted; his bones ached and throbbed.

 

Fog obscured everywhere he looked; shadows loomed. Night had begun to fall. If he _did_ fall to the hands of the other two King’s Chosen, would his soul end up here? Were the souls of the other King’s Chosen who’d fallen in past _Bhelemon_ ceremonies lurking throughout the forest, waiting for their new brothers to find them? This was _not_ where Yuuri wanted to die.

 

If he was going to perish, he wanted it to be in the arms of the tall, silver-haired boy with eyes as vast and blue as the seven oceans, whose warm arms had held him through good times and bad, through tears and fighting and the crushing loneliness that came with being one of the only three would could stake a claim to the coveted High Throne.

 

Except that boy was lurking somewhere in the Forests of _Bhelemon_ , whispering to animals and sending them to dispatch Yuuri and the other King’s Chosen. The cruel reality of the situation slapped him in the face, so sudden that he almost went sprawling into the filth. _Stop thinking about that now. Focus on surviving. You can mourn later_.

 

Through the fog and the dull haze, Yuuri caught the flash of silver. His hand on top of the hissing _kobura_ ’s head went rigid. His chest throbbed, and he was freezing, and yet his insides burned as if the Sister, the goddess of blazes, had pressed her lips to his and filled him with her sacred fire.

  
He took a step back, lowering himself into a defensive crouch, eyes searching—and then time stopped, and his heart thumped painfully as the silver figure, clad in the earthen greens of the Mother, rushed at him from the mist. A sharp, wolf-handled blade, shining like a strip of moonlight, slicing through the air—and then Viktor’s ocean eyes, filled to the brim with horrified tears. And Yuuri opened his mouth, shrieking Viktor’s name, thrust his hand forward and wondered, not for the first time, how all this horror had begun.


	2. The Poisonous King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bhelemon_. The thought sent shudders up Yuuri’s spine. Since the dawn of time, as far back as anyone could remember, the Five had blessed three individuals every now and again, determining that these three blessed people, the King’s Chosen, would duel to the death to decide the ruler of the High Throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, everyone! Or rather, I guess it's technically evening, since I'm publishing this at 10:30 PM, but with the hours I tend to work, this counts as morning for me.
> 
> Welcome to the first official chapter of " _thus with a kiss_ ". I'm excited to be able to write this chapter, even though it is technically one of the three obligatory exposition chapters that sets up the world, the conflict, and gives just a little bit of backstory as to _Bhelemon_ and the duel Yuuri, Viktor, and Yuri/Yurio will be participating in.
> 
> I would like to thank everyone who has supported me throughout my story updates. I do hope that everyone stays safe, regardless of what weather conditions you live in. I'm currently facing a nasty snowstorm, myself; but then again, that frees me up to stay indoors and focus on writing.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter, guys!

_March 1, Year 367_

_Eleven Months Prior to Bhelemon_

 

**~ * ~ * ~ * ~**

 

Lord Yuuri Katsuki knew it was a serious mistake to walk out onto his balcony. It broke all the rules he’d been raised to obey since coming to Hasetsu—but when he opened the window first thing in the morning, a wisp of clean, cool forest air drifted in, beckoning to him like a crooked finger. _It’s probably still early enough_ , he thought. _People aren’t out yet. No one will see me_.

 

And so he stepped out onto the balcony. His bedroom was set in the highest tower of Hasetsu Manor, built on the outskirts of the thick forests. He felt like one of the dark-winged birds that shrieked outside his window as the sun began to rise, the sky close enough that he felt he could reach out and swipe his fingers through the clouds. The entirety of Hasetsu stretched out at his feet: patchwork farms in green valleys, the thick thorn-like walls surrounding the manor, the well-managed stables peppered with horses black as midnight, grazing in lush emerald fields.

 

He shuffled across the smooth stones of the black balcony, crisp morning air ruffling through his dark hair. His bare heels bounced with dull _thumps_ as he went to stand against the curved railing. The cold March wind rose goosebumps on his flesh; he should have grabbed a cloak or something before coming outside, but he figured a few minutes wouldn’t kill him.

 

Clad in only a short-sleeved black tunic and a pair of pale, faded shorts, Yuuri stretched out his arms. The wind battered his clothes around his hips, wafting his hair around his ears. For a moment, Yuuri felt as if he could step on the edge of the balcony and fly—but he knew that was impossible. Flight, or transformation allowing flight, was not one of Yuuri’s powers.

 

The sounds of early morning caught his attention; rustling leaves, the lowing calls of cows and bulls in the fields, the sharp clanging of metalwork in the massive town of Hasetsu half a mile down the road from the Manor. And, of course, the loud, unmistakable hissing of snakes slithering through the forests, beckoned to Hasetsu by the presence of the poison-immune King’s Chosen.

 

Yuuri’s lips drew into a frown. From a young age, he had known he was different. Even before the Temple of Five came and transported him and his family to the Manor in Hasetsu shortly after his fifth birthday, long before they announced he was one of three King’s Chosen—those sacred to the Five Gods, the _only_ three would could stake a claim to the High Throne—Yuuri had known, instinctively, that he was not like other humans.

 

A loud knock on the massive chamber door reverberated through Yuuri’s bedroom. Outside in the cool breath of March air, he hadn’t heard the loud stomp of heels clacking up the stone stairwell. Lady Minako Okukawa’s distinct voice, loud and sharp, bellowed from the hallway: “Yuuri Katsuki, you had _better not_ be on that balcony!”

 

Yuuri sighed. He stepped back inside his room and shut the balcony door. How had Minako known he was out on his balcony? He supposed it was _possible_ she’d stationed spies around his room, but he didn’t want to think she’d invade his privacy _that_ much. Ah, well. It would be time for him to begin his day, anyway—he’d have to try and sneak out onto the balcony again later.

 

He closed the dark curtains. Shadows flooded his massive bedchambers, too large and crowded with furniture for a single person, but the servants of Hasetsu Manor had insisted that, as a King’s Chosen, Yuuri occupy the largest bedroom, set in the highest tower. He supposed it had to do with his status, but all it did was make him feel like a prisoner in his own home.

 

Lady Minako was waiting when Yuuri hurried over to open the door—he could have waited for a servant to do it on his own or ordered one to do so, but Yuuri didn’t like to be lazy. And if he let servants do _everything_ , what would there be for him to do?

 

Minako was a model of posture, poise, and perfection. Her beautiful auburn hair had been piled on top of her head in a loose, elegant bun. She swung into the bedroom, quickly followed by Hiroko Katsuki, who flashed Yuuri a reassuring smile. He bent down, and Hiroko pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

 

“Good morning, Hiroko,” said Yuuri, returning the smile. Hiroko Katsuki was, biologically, Yuuri’s mother. In the eyes of the Temple of Five, the King’s Chosen had no mothers other than _the_ Mother, the Great Goddess herself. Therefore, Yuuri had been instructed from the moment he moved into Hasetsu Manor to call Hiroko by her first name. It always felt strange to him, even now; and so, in private at least, when it was only him and his biological family in the room, he called Hiroko and her husband Toshiya “mom” and “dad”.

 

It had never occurred to Yuuri to think of Hiroko as anything other than his mother. It was her silken skirts that Yuuri had burrowed in at age five, after his life had been uprooted and changed in a matter of seconds, sobbing with terror. There was nothing remarkable or kingly about him on that day. But Hiroko had indulged him—and the Temple allowed it. Hiroko stroked his hair, whispered soothing words, allowed Yuuri’s sobs to ruin her brand-new dress.

 

Minako took one look around its pristine cleanliness, tended to by Yuuri’s own hand and a bit by the servants, and clicked her tongue. Magenta, silken skirts swished around her legs as she turned, the tightly-laced bodice and low chemise forcing Yuuri to look away with a light blush. “Trying to break the Temple’s rules, are you, Lord Katsuki?”

 

Yuuri’s shoulders shot to his ears as he winced, embarrassed, but the title had come from Minako’s mouth with a familiar teasing tone, so he knew he wasn’t in any real trouble. Without waiting for Yuuri to respond, she gestured to a wooden block in the center of Yuuri’s bedroom. The servants had brought it in a few days back—when Minako first announced that, since it was the year before _Bhelemon_ , it was time for the _Yūdokuna_ Festival.

 

Yuuri understood the importance of his presence in the Festival. _Yūdokuna_ was the celebration honoring the Brother, the infamous member of the Five Sacred Gods who had, many eons ago, been plunged into the center of the earth. In a great battle between the Five Sacred Gods, the Brother’s blood had cascaded to the ground below, transforming into snakes and spiders and leaking into plants, tainting them with poison. And as a King’s Chosen blessed by the Brother, the only one of the Chosen Three who could devour poison without so much as a stomachache, Yuuri _had_ to participate in the Festival.

 

Yuuri climbed up on the wooden block and slipped into _serious mode_. He stood still and barefoot on the wooden block with his arms at his sides. Dressed in only his black tunic and sleep shorts to ward off the chill, he ignored the bumps rising on his arms—Yuuri kept his chin held high, squinting into the dim light of the candles, and kept silent.

Minako and Hiroko stood in front of the wooden block. Their hands fluttered over Yuuri’s arms, down his ribs, across his neck and over his shoulders. Their footsteps echoed across the cold, hardwood floor as they circled around him.

 

“Arms up,” instructed Minako, tapping his elbow. Yuuri obeyed, lifting his arms up and holding them out. She traced her hands over his biceps, giving the muscle a squeeze. “Hmm, good. You’re a bit on the small side, but nothing we can’t work with.”

 

She stepped back, tapping a lacquered nail to her painted red lips. Her eyes moved across every inch of Yuuri’s face: his high cheekbones, his pale flesh, the deep mahogany color of his eyes. She pressed her mouth into a thin line, brow furrowing.

 

“It’s a shame no one’s going to see his face,” said Minako with an irritated sigh. She gestured with her hand, and Yuuri glanced out of the corner of his eye to Hiroko, looking to her for reassurance. She smiled and nodded once—Yuuri dropped his arms and felt blood rushing back to his fingers.

 

“We’ll do what we can,” Hiroko assured. She patted Yuuri on the hip; from his spot on top of the wooden block, he was much taller than her. Her head came to rest close to his stomach. She had to crane her neck up to give him another pleasant smile.

 

The corner of Yuuri’s lip quirked up into a smile, but he quickly set his expression back into a mask of neutral disinterest when Minako turned around. It wasn’t that Minako was a cruel person; Yuuri had known her all his life, and she was responsible for his training. And after years and years of training with Minako Okukawa, Yuuri knew when he needed to be serious.

 

Minako ran her fingers through Yuuri’s black hair, tangling her nails in unruly locks. She gave the strands a painless tug. “Such pretty hair,” she lamented. “It’s a shame no one will get to see it yet.” She turned to Hiroko. “Does he _have_ to hide his face?”

 

“Tradition dictates,” said Hiroko with a nod. She understood Minako’s frustration, but the Temple of Five had made it _perfectly_ clear that, until Yuuri’s birthday on the year before the beginning of _Bhelemon_ , the duel that would decide which of the three King’s Chosen would rule the High Throne, he could not step out as Lord Katsuki without his face well-hidden. A King’s Chosen blessed with the ability to ingest poisons covered their faces until their birthday before _Bhelemon_ in order to honor the Brother—the infamous, dark god had worn a mask for much of his life, before being thrust into the center of the planet by the Mother and the Father.

 

_Bhelemon_ . The thought sent shudders up Yuuri’s spine. Since the dawn of time, as far back as anyone could remember, the Five had blessed three individuals every now and again, determining that these three blessed people, the King’s Chosen, would duel to the death to decide the ruler of the High Throne. _Bhelemon_ occurred every fifty years, regardless of how old the King’s Chosen were. After _Bhelemon_ concluded, the new King would rule until the Five chosen three new Chosen. And then, along with their consort, the former King would go off to live out their life. And so the cycle would continue.

 

In the fresh sunlight filtering in through the slants in the curtains, Minako’s dark hair shimmered as if filled with crushed diamonds. She was a beautiful young woman, with painted crimson lips and striking, dark eyes. She’d lived in Hasetsu Manor since she was a child, and she’d taken it upon herself to school Yuuri on how to win _Bhelemon_ and, if he won— _No, not “if”, when_ , he told himself, trying not to shudder at the thought—on the best way to rule a kingdom.

 

Minako grasped Yuuri’s hand. Her thumb traced the lines across his palms, down his middle finger and to the nails. “He’s going to have to wear gloves, too. Dammit. His nails would look good in black or green.” She held up his hand to Hiroko. “Don’t you think?”

 

“Definitely green,” said Hiroko with a nod.

 

“You can _still_ paint them for tonight,” said Yuuri, shifting his stiff shoulders. “If you want to.”

 

“That’s sweet of you, Yuuri,” Minako replied, tracing her fingers down his palm and resting them to the steady pulse in his wrist. The pale skin revealed a mapping of thin, blue veins, like small rivers. “But we’ll wait until your birthday. Your debut is going to be _fantastic_.”

 

She released Yuuri’s hand, and it bounced against his hip. He shifted his fingertips, rolling his shoulders. He hadn’t been on the block for very long, but there was still much of the day left. All the way to nightfall, the party in Hasetsu Manor, and then the Sacred Rite. Just thinking about it made Yuuri’s stomach twist; not as much as _Bhelemon_ , but close enough.

 

Hiroko pressed her fingers against Yuuri’s hip. “Are you feeling all right, dear?”

 

“I’m OK.”

 

Hiroko’s hand patted against his side. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Eating enough?”

 

Yuuri smiled; an inside joke between him and Hiroko. Despite the fact that she held a small bit of status from being the biological mother of a King’s Chosen, and could have lived the remains of her life in luxury if she chose, Hiroko insisted on preparing Yuuri’s meals herself.

 

There weren’t many servants living in Hasetsu Manor, despite the enormous size of the town. _Yūdokuna_ had brought about an abundance of nobles from all around the island, from other small kingdoms and dukedoms close to Hasetsu. Normally, the Manor housed Yuuri and his biological family—his mother and father, Hiroko and Toshiya, and his older sister Mari—as well as Lady Minako and a handful of servants whose families had lived in the Manor for generations.

 

Standing on the wooden block, Yuuri could feel the presence of other nobles in Hasetsu Manor. The bustling sounds of men and women scrambling about, setting up the ballroom with green and black streamers, torches that, when powered with _mana_ , would flicker between black flames and poisonous green. An elegant black marble table spread would be set in the far corner of Hasetsu Manor’s immense ballroom, intended to be filled later with all manners of sweets, liqueurs, dishes and flower arrangements.

 

Yuuri wondered if he’d be able to sneak off and visit with any of his friends. Phichit Chulanont, one of the few who’d seen his true face and actually knew he was Lord Katsuki, had come from a small kingdom three miles out of Hasetsu. But he was busy down in the ballroom with his butler, Celestino Cialdini, and Yuuri doubted he’d get a chance to see him before _Yūdokuna_.

 

“ _Yūdokuna_ is going to be fantastic,” said Minako with a dreamy sigh. She brushed her fingertips through Yuuri’s hair, this time as a calming gesture. “How are you feeling, kid? Good?”

 

“I’m nervous,” Yuuri admitted, because if he couldn’t be honest with Minako and Hiroko, there wasn’t anyone he could be honest with. “ _Yūdokuna_ ’s a big deal, and I don’t want to mess anything up.”

 

Minako took Yuuri’s hands and held them up as if she were about to sweep him off the wooden block and into a waltz. “You worry too much. Don’t stress—that’s what _I’m_ here for. Tonight’s all about the Brother, which, since you’re the King’s Chosen _sacred_ to the Brother, means that it’s all about _you_. Just try and enjoy yourself, and leave the worrying to me.”

 

Her voice was soothing, and Yuuri’s shoulders dropped. Hiroko’s hand came to rest on his hip again. With two kind souls pressing in close to him, surrounded by love and warmth, the panic and terror that came with the beginnings of _Bhelemon_ slipped away.

 

“Is the ceremonial garb prepared?” asked Minako, peering around Yuuri to look at Hiroko.

 

“It’s been finished now,” Hiroko assured. She pressed both of her hands on Yuuri’s waist, frowning at how close her fingers came to touching. She clucked her tongue. “The seamstresses informed me they’d have it done by noon.”

 

“That’s cutting it close. Have you seen what it looks like?”

 

“Black.”

 

Minako’s deadpan expression caused Yuuri’s shoulders to quirk with a small laugh. “I’m aware of that, Hiroko; I meant, what kind of _design_ are we looking at?” She traced the palm of her hand down Yuuri’s stomach, and shook her head as Hiroko’s lips twitched into a pleasant smile. “Smartass.”

 

“Forgive me,” said Hiroko, not sounding in the slightest bit apologetic. “I haven’t seen the finished product, but Mari went by yesterday to investigate. She says they’ve managed to create a silk cloak with a fur lining—and, in honor of Yuuri’s poison-immunity, they’ve dyed it green. Rabbit’s fur, I think. She said it looked intimidating; a perfect outfit for the Brother’s Chosen.”

 

Yuuri stifled a disapproving snort. Him, intimidating? Yeah, right. _That_ was worth a laugh.

 

“We’re entering _Bhelemon_ with a perfect champion.” Minako turned and tapped Yuuri beneath the chin. His teeth clacked together; he hadn’t realized he’d had his mouth open. “But, there’s still much to do before we’re ready for _Yūdokuna_ —come now, Yuuri, off the block.”

 

His knees trembled as he stepped off the block. He sunk into a low bow, testing his fluidity. He swept low to the ground, fingertips brushing the frigid hardwood of his bedroom floor, and rose elegantly up into a straight line, spine rigid and chin held high. He relaxed his expression into calm passivity—his _Lord Katsuki Look_ , he called it, despite the fact that no one saw it beneath the cloaks and masks the Temple forced him to wear when he stepped outside as a King’s Chosen.

 

The corners of Minako’s painted lips lifted into a proud smile; her years of training were finally about to pay off, and she couldn’t help but revel in the fruits of her labors. “You look every bit like a King, Yuuri.” She stepped forward and placed her hands on his shoulders. Tall, otherworldly beautiful Minako. Her powerful voice left no room for doubt. “Now all you’ve got to do is _act_ the part.”

 

Yuuri nodded, slowly, his expression firmly locked in place. It had become a mask that he could hide behind, a way for him to disguise the nervousness and terror the thought of _Bhelemon_ filled him with. If he could play off his discomfort as nothing more than indifference, pretend to view the duel as just another minor obstacle he had to to claim his throne, then maybe one day he could even fool himself into believing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we have learned just a little bit about Yuuri Katsuki and his presence in _Bhelemon_. According to the laws of the Temple of Five (the temple dedicated to the Five gods presiding over this fantasy world), Yuuri has to keep his face hidden when he wanders outside as "Lord Katsuki".
> 
> In our next chapter, we follow Viktor Nikiforov and his own preparations for _Bhelemon_. This will count as his obligatory exposition chapter, and then after that, it will focus on Yuri/Yurio.
> 
> After these chapters, the story will pick up speed and hopefully be a bit more interesting and hopefully less confusing. There is quite a bit I need to include in the lore, the religion, and the motivation behind _Bhelemon_ and the Temple of Five and, with hope, I will be successful in doing so.
> 
> Next time, we join Viktor in his own preparations and find out what he thinks about all of this.
> 
> Thank you everyone who has supported me. This fan fiction is dedicated to my brother, who has been going through a rough time recently and who I hope will have a chance to enjoy this story in the near future. See you all in the next chapter, you guys! Stay awesome!
> 
> A/N: The name for the poisonous festival ( _Yūdokuna_ ), comes from the Japanese word for "toxic". Google works for several things so, with luck, this translation is correct.


	3. The Beast King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christophe hurried over to his own horse, a beautiful white mare, and reached out to fetch the blanket and saddle in order to prepare her for a ride, but Viktor’s chuckling stopped him short. Christophe turned to look at him. “Let me guess...we’re not taking the _horses_ , are we?”
> 
> “No,” Viktor agreed, “but there _will_ be horses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, my dears! Welcome to the second exposition-based chapter of " _thus with a kiss_ ". This time, we are focusing on Viktor and his preparations for _Bhelemon_. After this, we will dive into Yuri/Yurio's preparations, and then after that, we can dive into the story.
> 
> I have had a lot of fun writing this story. I wrote an extensive outline of the chapters and the events that I wish to have take place; with luck, I will be able to get them out without much difficulty.
> 
> In the mean time, I have been reading a fair amount of wonderful fan fictions from some amazing offers. If anyone has the time, please go check out Kashoku's story "Omerta". It's a bit on the dark side, focusing on stripper!Yuuri and mafia-boss!Victor, and my God, it is a wonderful, well-written story.
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter, everyone! Have an awesome weekend, and stay safe out there!

_ March 1, Year 367 _

_ Eleven Months Prior to Bhelemon _

 

**~ * ~ * ~ * ~**

 

Makkachiin stalked a small black sparrow through the snow. The brilliant feathered avian hopped on little feet over icy cobblestones, miniature wings opening to glide through the frigid air. Its bead-colored eyes darted to the massive poodle on its heels; Makkachiin, nose pressed to the ground, shuffled along behind it.

 

“Come  _ on _ , Nekola, you have to try harder than that!” Lord Viktor Nikiforov countered the clumsy attempt to knock his claymore from his hand. Sweat peppered his forehead and trickled down his back. His long silver hair, tied back high on top of his head, swung like a whip as he moved. The sunlight that gleamed off the high snowbanks surrounding the courtyard left him with a bit of a headache. But Viktor wasn’t even tired. This little exercise was just to warm up—and Viktor was enjoying every moment of it.

 

Out of the corner of his ocean-colored eyes, Viktor watched Makkachiin dash after the black sparrow. He had no intention of devouring the sparrow, merely to observe and chase. Makkachiin was a standard poodle, six years old, and massive. He’d changed from the small, brown ball of fluff Viktor’s father and mother presented to him for his twenty-first birthday, small enough to fit in the palm of Viktor’s gloved hands.

 

Viktor caught a flash of blue just as he saw Makkachiin dive for the sparrow, twin shoots of snow erupting from the cobblestones like geysers. He answered the move his opponent, Emil Nekola, made toward his stomach; he stepped to the side and swung, the claymore whistling through the air, and caught the hilt of Emil’s sword. As the swords clashed with a shattering  _ clang _ , the vibration of the strike ran up his arm until he felt it in his shoulder.

 

Viktor’s momentary second of pain did not matter. Emil’s blade went skittering across the stones, and his opponent swore, loud and long, shaking numb fingers and backing out of reach of Viktor’s blade.

 

“Five  _ dammit _ , Nikiforov! Can’t you disarm someone without taking the use of his arm?  _ Jeez! _ ” Emil Nekola shoved up the visor of his helm with his uninjured left hand. His face was flushed with exertion, dark blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

 

Viktor laughed and gave his claymore an experimental swing. He moved it quickly, as if it weighed the same as a swan’s feather. After years and years of training, the claymore had become like an extension of his body. “I  _ did _ warn you I wouldn’t go easy. I’m training for  _ Bhelemon _ , Emil—the other King’s Chosen aren’t going to go easy on me, so I can’t afford to go easy on them.”

 

“Yes, well,” said Emil sourly, a scowl turning his handsome face into a mask of annoyance, “now you’ve ruined the use of my hand for the next hour at least, and I hope you’re satisfied with yourself.”

 

Viktor smiled brightly. “Of course I am. Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

 

Emil snorted and allowed one of the little servant girls, dressed in a flowing green dress, flowers in her dark hair, to come over and help pull the gauntlet off his injured hand. “It  _ was _ an impressive swing, I’ll give you that much, Nikiforov.”

 

“Don’t sulk, Nekola,” admonished Viktor’s cousin and best friend, Christophe Giacometti, slapping Emil on the back with a good-natured laugh. The green-clad maidens who’d gathered to watch the sparring match, ladies in service to the Mother, the Sacred Goddess of Earth, giggled behind their hands. “So Viktor managed to make a fool of you in front of everyone. Don’t worry—you’ll get him  _ next time _ .”

 

Emil Nekola cast an involuntary glance at the colorful knot of maidens in their delicate silk gowns and brown fur-lined cloaks, dark braided hair curled beneath raised hoods and bound back with modest silver circlets. His expression smoothed from aggravation into a pleasant smile. “Defeat Viktor Nikiforov? You’re quite the comedian, aren’t you, Chris?”

 

Viktor gave his claymore another experimental swing, the hilt slipping in his gloved grip. Makkachiin pressed his paws into a snowbank; the black sparrow had long-since fluttered off into the fresh winter air.

 

“Viktor doesn’t hold back for  _ anyone _ ,” said Christophe, before Viktor could interject and say the same thing. He raised a delicate, silver eyebrow, but didn’t answer; after all, it  _ was _ true. He couldn’t afford to hold back, not with  _ Bhelemon _ approaching. “Just be thankful he didn’t sic one of his beasts on you—our King’s Chosen is a beast tamer, remember?”

 

“Er, yeah, you’re right,” said Emil Nekola, rubbing the back of his sweat-drenched throat. “Wouldn’t want him to send that poodle of his after me.” He cast a quick glance of Makkachiin, who was busy digging mounds in the snowbanks.

 

Viktor snorted, but kept his thoughts to himself. He would never consider sending Makkachiin to attack any opponent, no matter how hard they fought against him. Emil Nekola was an impressive opponent, and a hard, devoted warrior—but Viktor was a King’s Chosen, sacred to the Mother and a tamer of beasts. His strength in both combat and  _ mana _ -wielding knew no bounds; two decades of fierce training had honed his skills and made Viktor a formidable force.

 

Having been born in St. Petersburg, even before being named as a King’s Chosen, Viktor had grown up in the bosom of privilege. He’d been given impressive tutors, assigned to the best swordmasters his biological father could find to teach him, and schooled in  _ mana _ control from the moment he could walk.

 

“Don’t feel too bad, Emil,” said Viktor, offering Emil a handshake to ensure there were no hard feelings. Emil took his hand with his own uninjured one, giving it a firm shake. “Christophe and I will be heading into the forest this afternoon to hunt—why don’t you join us?”

 

One of the green-clad ladies in service to the Mother danced soundlessly across the snow over to Viktor’s side, hands fluttering to the claymore in his grip. He allowed her to take it; Emil had been his last opponent for the day. As the King’s Chosen sacred to the Mother, it made sense that the ladies would treat Viktor with the same respect they would their Goddess.

 

Emil pressed his lips into a thin line, mulling it over. “I’d love to, but my father’s requested my presence, the Five only know what for,” he grumbled. “I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of: I think he’s been bride-searching for me and I’m about to be chained to some haunty brat I’ve never met whose only virtue is a noble family with some land.”

 

Christophe nodded in understanding. “Ah, well—don’t fret, my friend! Plenty of lovely women throughout St. Petersburg. And more than enough pretty men to satisfy all sorts of tastes.” He struck his tongue out to the side, as he often did when he was thinking. “On the matter of brides, however, it seems marriage just isn’t for love anymore. It’s all business, business, business. My advice to you would be to be honest with her and, with luck, perhaps you can each find a lover to satisfy your needs. If you’re lucky, your father will have found you a beauty whose personality and quirks you can one day come to love, though such a find is rare indeed. But I wouldn’t plan on it—only the High King is allowed to marry for love.”

 

Viktor frowned; the High King, the King’s Chosen who was winner of  _ Bhelemon _ , was able to take a consort and marry them, regardless of sex or race or social status. But just because it was true didn’t mean he enjoyed flaunting it.

 

He looked over at the flock of the Mother’s maidens, hoping none of them had heard the conversation. He changed the subject back to the hunt. “Chris and I have been looking for a new place ever since those swans migrated away for the winter. It’s just not the same without them. Are you sure you won’t be able to get away and come with us?”

 

“Unfortunately. My father was, ugh, insistent that I not be late.” Emil Nekola had lost his aggravation among his frustration toward his father and the prospect of a bride. “Some other time?”

 

“Of course. Yakov insists that these hunts are good practice.” It was Viktor’s turn to slap Emil companionably on the back; he stood firm against a blow that would have knocked a lesser man flat on his back, and Viktor gave him a proud smile.

 

With a nod to Christophe, Emi went off to disarm. Viktor stripped his own armor, leaving it in a neat pile for a squire to come collect and put away. He would have done it on his own, but the squires always stumbled over themselves to gather up Lord Viktor Nikiforov’s armor and weapons and return them to their proper place, and Viktor decided if it gave them even a moment of joy, then he was fine continuing to allow it.

 

The Mother’s maidens drifted off to the snow-coated gardens when it became plain that their King’s Chosen had no intention of conversing with them or amusing them with another duel. Viktor gestured to one of the servants lining the stone walls of St. Petersburg Castle, dressed in a single-piece bronze uniform.

 

“Fetch us some pirozhki and a couple of vodka tankards from the kitchen and bring them to the stables, please and thank you,” he said to the young, blond-haired servant who came and bowed before him. As a King’s Chosen, Viktor’s orders were to be obeyed without question, but he believed that kindness worked both ways.

 

The servant bowed with a pleasant, “As you wish, Lord Nikiforov.” He hurried off to the kitchens, and Viktor turned to his friend. Christophe was a tall young man, about an inch taller than Viktor, with a shock of ice blond hair and strands of dark hair swept behind his ears. What cemented his friendship with Viktor was not their blood relationship, but their common interest in the study of  _ mana _ manipulation. Viktor and Christophe were both powerful mages, although Viktor’s ability to control  _ mana _ far surpassed Christophe’s due to his position as a King’s Chosen.

 

Viktor’s mana teacher and the one who’d been training him since childhood on how to win  _ Bhelemon _ , Yakov Feltsman, often permitted Christophe to sit in on and participate in Viktor’s  _ mana _ lessons.

 

“I’m not in the mood to listen to Yakov scold me,” said Viktor, waving his hand to the high tower at the top of St. Petersburg Castle. “What do you say to going straight to the stables and heading out before Yakov has a chance to figure out what we’re up to?”

 

“Sounds excellent,” Christophe agreed readily, as he would agree with almost anything Viktor suggested by way of amusement. “I’ve a juicy bit of gossip for you, too—shall we run today, or will we fly?”

 

“We flew yesterday; how about a good, long run?” Viktor loved flying, but it’d been a long time since he’d had a good, challenging ride over the rough ground; for some reason, he’d been itching to try out something other than the delicate swan body he’d grown accustomed to transforming into.

 

Since the beginning of the winter, when the Temple of Five announced the beginning of the year leading into  _ Bhelemon _ , Viktor had been feeling a growing discontent he just couldn’t seem to shake except when he was doing something productive. Others might call it “fear”, but Viktor Nikiforov was a King’s Chosen, a tamer of the fiercest beasts and a mage powerful enough to manipulate his own form, and the forms of others, and become a beast. He couldn’t  _ afford _ to be afraid of  _ Bhelemon _ .

 

_ Once Bhelemon’s over—and I’ve taken the High Throne—things will calm down around here _ . Beast tamers had ruled the High Throne for decades; their superior manipulation of  _ mana _ and the ability to communicate with and control the minds of lesser animals made them perfect champions. Viktor’s own biological father, the former High King, had also been a beast tamer.

 

Viktor frowned as he and Christophe strolled across the courtyard path to where Makkachiin lay waiting. He’d gone from playing in snowbanks to laying down on top of the stones. Viktor smiled when he saw him. Even with the pressure of  _ Bhelemon _ pressing down on his shoulders, Makkachiin could always comfort him. He bent down to stroke the poodle’s fluffy head; Makkachiin yipped and pressed his cool, wet nose into Viktor’s palm.

 

“Keep an eye on Yakov for me, won’t you, Makka?” Viktor asked, pursing his lips at the thought of Yakov, in his dark brown coat, severe blue eyes flashing, storming into the courtyard to discover that both Viktor and Christophe had slipped off to go hunting instead of reporting for  _ mana _ training. “We won’t be gone long—I’ll even bring you back a present.”

 

Makkachiin licked the tips of Viktor’s fingers; a flush of warmth shot through him, distant and detached, and Viktor had enough sense to recognize that he was picking up on Makkachiin’s mood. He smiled. As a beast taming King’s Chosen, Viktor could communicate with most animals, although the communication tended not to come in the form of human speech. It was more that Viktor could understand their intentions, transferring his words into a language an animal could perfectly understand, and respond according to their emotions.

 

He and Christophe strolled across the yard to the stable, leaving the Mother’s maidens and the squires to pick up Viktor’s discarded armor. His dark green tunic stuck to his back, and he couldn’t wait to be out of the hard pressure leaking in through the marble walls of St, Petersburg Castle.

 

There was no breeze to cool him once they entered the stables; Viktor ran a hand through his long silver hair, feeling the thick strands plastered to the nape of his neck with sweat. The stables, lining to the brim with big, snow-colored horses. There were no servants— _ Perfect _ , Viktor thought, grinning from ear to ear. There would be no witnesses.

 

Christophe hurried over to his own horse, a beautiful white mare, and reached out to fetch the blanket and saddle in order to prepare her for a ride, but Viktor’s chuckling stopped him short. Christophe turned to look at him. “Let me guess...we’re not taking the  _ horses _ , are we?”

 

“No,” Viktor agreed, “but there  _ will _ be horses.”

 

Christophe’s olive-colored eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and excitement; Viktor pressed his palms in a prayer-position, lining up his elegant fingertips. He inhaled through his nose, channeling the pungent air of the stables into his lungs, and exhaled through his half-parted lips. The trick to transformation, of course, was to summon enough  _ mana _ from the ground and surrounding plants and living creatures to rewrite the design of his and Christophe’s bodies—the length of their limbs, the position of their internal organs, the color of their hair and the elasticity of their muscles.

 

Transformation spells were quite easy to fail. Viktor nibbled his lower lip as he drowned out the nickerings of the stable horses, I may need to transform us one at a time. That would complicate his work, but it would be the surest and safest road to success.  _ Swan spells are simple—they’re smaller. Horses have more to them, and if I were to screw this up _ …

 

Viktor decided to work his magic on Christophe first; he would be able to focus better if he himself hadn’t been transformed already. He focused on a pair of invisible hands, latching on to Christophe’s delicate arms and legs and molding them, shifting his form with a powerful surge of  _ mana _ .

 

With a little more experimentation on the proper weight of a horse’s frame, he felt confident enough of his results to bind the strands of  _ mana _ he’d pulled from the horses standing around and send them into Christophe’s body. By this time, the horses were watching him, for magic attracted animals. He felt each of their personalities and various states of interest as a force of its own.

 

A glowing mist, rather than an arrangement of colorful sparkles, enveloped Christophe in a brilliant earth green haze—the signature color of Viktor’s  _ mana _ . It was beautiful, so similar to the beauty of the Mother’s hills and flower-speckled fields that stretched out from every corner of St. Petersburg castle.

 

When transforming another being aside from himself, Viktor figured it was better to be sure than swift, so the spell worked slowly, and the green vapor that had engulfed Christophe seemed to linger far longer than Viktor would have liked. Surety meant Yakov had a larger window to side-step Makkachiin and discover Viktor and Christophe’s whereabouts.  _ No time to worry about that now—focus, focus _ . He pulled his fingers apart, pressed his palms together, shifting and molding with his mind, gaze flickering to the stable horses watching in awe so he could not possibly forget what form he intended to shape Christophe into.

 

Slowly, layer by layer, Christophe’s body morphed into Viktor’s intended design. The sheer amount of detail that went into transforming a human into a horse startled him when he realized how much there was—but he shouldn’t have been surprised; horses were living creatures, not tapestries, and Viktor knew from years and years of perfecting transformation spells for smaller creatures that even the smallest fish could prove to be a complicated specimen.

 

Christophe’s transformation took less time than Viktor initially intended; he stepped back with a smile and took a second to admire his handiwork. Where his elegant cousin had been standing now rose a handsome, honey-colored palomino. Snow-blond hair fluttered around the steed’s firm shoulders in delicate strands; he flicked his head in Viktor’s direction, dark eyes glimmering.

 

Proud of his handiwork, Viktor set about his own transformation. His own would be easier; he knew his body well, understood in what ways he could mold himself without pain, projected an image in his head and tried to replicate it quickly. He’d already performed the spell on another being, who now danced on beautiful hooves in front of him, and it wouldn’t be difficult to replicate. He slipped a bit more speed into the process, stretching his limbs out and shifting his fingers through his silver hair, brushing it down over his shoulders as they were stretched and tightened.

 

His transformation ended with a flourish. Viktor rose two heads taller than he had previously. He tossed his head back with a low whinny, seeing the elegant strands of silver hair fluttering in front of his face. He struck a silver hoof on the dirt floor.

 

: _ Impressive _ ,: came Christophe’s thick-accented voice, filtering in one ear and out the other. Viktor turned and watched as the palomino sauntered over to him and bumped their shoulders together, honey-gold blending in with delicate silver. : _ You’re getting much better at this, Viktor _ .:

 

: _ My speed will improve next time _ ,: Viktor assured, tossing his head over to the flock of horses who’d pressed into the doors of their pens, watching the duo with wide, bead-black eyes. : _ Hopefully without the audience _ .:

 

: _ You love it _ ,: Christophe answered with a whinnying laugh. : _ Now, we should be getting on, before Yakov realizes you’ve ordered Makkachiin to stall him. Besides, you’re going to want to hear this little bit of gossip I’ve got for you, dear cousin _ .:

 

The servant whom Viktor had sent off to the kitchens to fetch pirozhki and vodka flasks returned with their provisions; if he had noticed the two unsaddled, uncontained stallions standing in the middle of the stables, he said nothing. He set the provisions on a barrel by the door, bowed deep, and danced off to the gardens. Viktor had never been more thankful to be a King’s Chosen—the servants would never tattle on him and, since it was not uncommon knowledge that he could shapeshift himself and others into animals, none of them batted an eye when an animal did something out of the ordinary.

 

Viktor and Christophe trotted over to the provisions, carefully wrapped in brown fabric bags they could easily maneuver to hang around their throats and rest on their backs. Viktor arranged his own provisions to his liking, and as he waited for Christophe to adjust his own comfortably, he felt that stale, flat feeling wash over him again.

 

: _ Worried for Bhelemon, my lord? _ : asked Christophe. His voice held a note of humor, and Viktor shook his head with a disinterested huff.

 

: _ Worried? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m excited _ .: Perhaps, if he could convince Christophe, one day he might be able to convince himself. : _ There’s quite a bit going on, don’t you think? Bhelemon begins next winter. And this will be the year I finally get to meet Lord Katsuki _ .:

 

: _ What a coincidence _ ,: Christophe purred as he and Viktor stepped out of the stables. The blue winter skies high above the massive castle of St, Petersburg glimmered without a cloud in sight; Viktor felt his heart soar at the prospect of an afternoon filled with freedom. : _ Lord Katsuki is actually who I wanted to talk to you about. You know that tonight is Yūdokuna in Hasetsu, don’t you? _ :

 

: _ The poisonous festival? _ : Viktor, being a King’s Chosen, had been schooled, however briefly, on the ceremonies of the other two King’s Chosen. And, while he had never seen Lord Katsuki in person, he understood that the poisonous festival was always held the year before Bhelemon, to give praise to the Brother. : _ What has that got to do with me? _ :

 

Christophe spurred himself forward, and Viktor followed close behind. The two quickly made their way to the fields, stepping through the carefully tended emerald grasses to the copse of forests in the distance. Evading the servants wouldn’t be difficult, but if Yakov or any of the soldiers were to spot them, Viktor could kiss his afternoon of freedom goodbye.

 

: _ Well, since I’m from a notable noble family, my father has been invited to attend Yūdokuna. We’re heading out later this evening, before the sun goes down and _ —: Christophe shot Viktor a sly glance, or what Viktor imagined a sly glance on a horse’s face would look like. : _ My father has informed me that I’m allowed to bring a guest _ .:

 

Viktor bowed his head as his hooves trotted over the trampled fields. : _ I appreciate the offer, Chris, but you know the rules. I’m not allowed to see Lord Katsuki until the day after his birthday this year. The Temple was quite clear on that _ .:

 

: _ But, dear cousin, that’s the best part! Yūdokuna is, primarily, a masquerade. We’ll dress you up, let you wear a mask, and Lord Katsuki, and the Temple, will never know it’s you! Lord Katsuki doesn’t know what you look like, so there’s no fear of him recognizing who you are. We’ll come up for some excuse for Yakov as to why you won’t be able to attend lessons this evening. So, how about it, cousin? _ :

 

Viktor stepped into the delicious shade of the forests and allowed his shoulders to relax. He bowed his head again, quickly, afraid that, if Christophe were to see the eager expression on his face, he’d never live it down. He was curious about Lord Katsuki—the King’s Chosen he’d never met.

 

Christophe moved beyond him, bumping their shoulders together. The affectionate touch made Viktor’s heart swell with joy, momentarily erasing the discomfort the thoughts of  _ Bhelemon _ stirred within him.

 

Viktor danced on his hooves for a moment, swaying back and forth, mulling over the consequences of his actions in his head. If Yakov or, Five forbid, the Temple of Five, were to discover that he had accompanied Christophe to Hasetsu to sneak a peek at Lord Katsuki, he’d be in worlds of trouble. But, at the same time, the opportunity to see Lord Katsuki at long last, to finally put an image to one of the only other two in the world he had to fear, was too great to pass up.

 

Christophe must have taken his expression as affirmation; he flicked his head with a pleased whinny. : _ That’s the spirit. That blond-haired brat is going to be so jealous—it’s his birthday today, isn’t it? _ :

 

Viktor raised his head to the tree tops, admiring the rainbow assortment of sunlight filtering in through frozen leaves and snow-caked branches. : _ Oh, yes, that’s right. Hmph. Won’t he be jealous. Ah, well. He should enjoy his birthday—when I take the High Throne, he won’t get another one _ .:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, Viktor's exposition-based chapter draws to a close. Viktor, our beast-tamer and animal shape-shifter, plans to crash Yuuri Katsuki's party, and it is here that our two protagonists will meet up and begin their interactions.
> 
> In our next chapter, we get to finally see what Yuri/Yurio has been up to during all this time. And after that, finally, we can get into the real meat of the story.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck by me during my time writing. It means a lot to me that you all are enjoying my stories and my writing style. Since hours at work have begun to drop, I hope to have more time to write and complete some of the works that I have begun.
> 
> See you all in the next chapter!


	4. The Elemental King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He moved the tendrils and glanced up at the crowd. Not enough. They looked impressed, but it wasn’t enough. He would never impress them with this. They were waiting for something else—something Yuri had not been practicing for quite a few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning and welcome back, everyone! It's been a little bit, but I'm back on working with this story. With Anime Boston coming up in a few weeks, I'm getting back into the swing of _Yuri!!! On Ice_. I'm cosplaying as Yuuri Katsuki. Super excited for how that's going to turn out!
> 
> This is the chapter where we focus on Yuri Plisetsky and how he has been preparing for _Bhelemon_. And then, after this chapter, we will continue with the story.
> 
> Have an awesome day, everyone, and please enjoy the chapter!

_ March 1, Year 367 _

_ Eleven Months Prior to Bhelemon _

 

**~ * ~ * ~ * ~**

 

The men and women and children of the small city of Moscow had gathered to celebrate Lord Yuri Plisetsky’s fifteenth birthday. Pressed in tight beneath the elegant dome of the Ice Dome, lips sticky from bites of honied chicken or bites of pirozhki, their gazes were locked firmly on the marble steps leading down into a carved out bowl of stone.

 

Yuri stood in front of them, arms held above his head.  _ Hold your pose. That’s it. Don’t forget to breathe _ . Sweat trickled down the nape of his neck. He was thankful Lilia had convinced him to put his hair up; the intricate braids had been aggravating to coil around one another, had kept Yuri in an uncomfortable chair for the better part of an hour while a white-robed priestess dragged a comb through his ice-blond hair.

 

But it had all been worth it—the pain, the frustration, the hours of practicing. His fifteenth birthday was a cause for celebration. In just a few more months, coming much too soon,  _ Bhelemon _ would be upon them. And with the end of  _ Bhelemon _ , one King’s Chosen would be left standing, and the High King would be crowned.

 

Presented before the crowd in an elegant silver uniform, decorated from head to toe in clear crystals, Yuri had filled the air with beautiful streaks of blue lightning. Crackling bolts skittered across the sky like gravel across a sheet of ice. Beneath his feet, on which a brand new pair of skates rested, a frozen pond stretched out before him.

 

Yuri liked the ice the most. With his powerful  _ mana _ , he could summon sheets of ice with barely a thought, could flick his fingers and transform the whole harbor into his own personal ice rink if he chose. Elementals as powerful as Yuri Plisetsky were difficult to come by; in all the centuries  _ Bhelemon _ had occurred, no elemental had ever possessed the ability to control the majority of the natural elements with the ease and grace Yuri displayed.

 

_ That just means Bhelemon will be mine _ . Yuri raised his hands high, swinging them down in an elegant arc to his sides, thunder rolling as he did so. He could smell the beginnings of rain; he would not allow it to fall. He had enough control over the storm he’d conjured to dispel and strength it with the blink of an eye.

 

The Ice Dome was an impressive structure, despite the poverty that racked Moscow. The heavy, slanted roof was supported by thick marble columns of never-melting ice. Sustained by  _ mana _ alone, despite the heat that Yuri felt circulating through the open space, the ice remained strong and beautiful as it had always.

 

Yuri had been coming to the Ice Dome for as long as he could remember. Unlike the other King’s Chosen, he’d been identified at birth, and as such had spent his every waking moment training.

 

Pulsating with  _ mana _ from centuries past, the Ice Dome was a perfect place to practice. Yuri connected skating with control, gesturing with his hands, twirling and lifting his legs in the air, dancing and summoning earth and water and ice and wind to obey his commands.

 

The elation that came with his control over the forces of nature created by the Five Sacred Gods set his blood to a pleasant boil, vibrating through his bones. He was the King’s Chosen who was sacred to three of the Five Sacred Gods—the Father, the Second Son, and the Sister. The Mother and the Brother were powerful beings, to be certain, but to have three Gods at his back filled Yuri with power, confidence, and perhaps even just the slightest bit of arrogance.

 

But from the looks on the faces of the men and women of Moscow, one would think Yuri had done nothing more than spin prettily on top of the ice. In the brilliant lightning, the wide-eyed expectation written on their faces teetered above boredom.

 

Yuri’s control over the elements was legendary, even now; no doubt Lord Katsuki and Lord Nikiforov had heard the whispers, the rumors of how Lord Plisetsky could shake the earth until the solid pillars of even the sturdiest structures came crumbling down.

 

Yuri’s lips drew into a victorious smile. He could do it—had done it once before, when he was eight years old. But he didn’t feel like being a showoff tonight. It was his fifteenth birthday, and he wanted to enjoy it. Property damage was not on his list of priorities.

 

He dipped back into a layback spin, calling on the wind as he did so. The elegant silver torches blew out; sparks and orange embers went flying from the tops. Screams of delight filled Yuri’s ears as a gaggle of young girls skipped joyfully out of the way.

 

Yuri did not wait for the wind to die down before he twirled on the ice, pivoting his foot and rising into the air with a triple toe loop. With his hand out at his side, he gestured to the tops of the ice; beneath the call of his mana, the unmelting surface of the Ice Dome rose in several sections, transforming into tendrils of perfect, clear water.

 

Loud shrieks and chants for more erupted from the crowd. Gathering before him, witnessing the strength and power he exhibited, the crowd of adults had transformed into a screaming flock of excited toddlers. There were more in attendance than Yuri had ever seen, packed into the Ice Dome and pressed into the expanse of grounds surrounding it.

 

Lilia Baranovskaya, his tutor and the woman who had all but raised him, had told him before the beginning of the ceremony that the road to the Dome glowing with the candles of supporters from all around—a handful of whom had come all the way from St. Petersburg just to witness his greatness.

 

The strength of Yuri Plisetsky’s gift had inspired many from other small kingdoms to abandon their rulers and flock to Moscow. Most of them had come to see if the rumors were true; that Lord Plisetsky, the youngest of the King’s Chosen, was the true king, and that the former reign of the beast-tamer king had finally come to an end.

 

High King Nikiforov— _ that man’s asshole father _ —had ruled the world with an iron fist. Yuri had not been alive for his rule, but he’d heard the vicious rumors. The former beast-tamer had lived up to his name; and if he was anything at all like  _ Viktor _ , Yuri was glad he’d never gotten a chance to know him.

 

Yuri’s arms trembled. Rage bolted through him, pooling in his stomach like molten rock.  _ Don’t think about him now. Focus on your ceremony. Today is not about Viktor—it’s about me _ . He gave a small series of single jumps, a handsome step-sequence that allowed him to wrap the tendrils of water high in the air and fling them about like a collection of whips.

 

He moved the tendrils and glanced up at the crowd. Not enough. They looked impressed, but it wasn’t enough. He would never impress them with this. They were waiting for something else—something Yuri had not been practicing for quite a few months.

 

His mouth went dry.  _ Fire _ . The Sister’s blessed element. It was his  _ worst _ element. He’d poured all of his  _ mana _ into trying to control the flames before, into making them obey the flick of his fingers or the jerk of his head, but no matter how often he tried, it either ignored him completely or burned out of control.

 

Yuri glanced desperately across the crowd to the back, where Lilia Baranovskaya huddled against the curve of the south wall, layered in a thick crimson coat with a wrapping of dark and light blue ribbons up the arms. Her brow is furrowed, her lips drawn in concentration. Yuri gave another set of jumps, maneuvering the tendrils of water about, and pleaded with her.

 

Lilia took note of his dripping brow, of the desperate tentacles of melted ice twirling around him without much direction or purpose, and she understood immediately. Her authoritative voice rose above the shrieks and calls of the delighted crowd; channeled with  _ mana _ to amplify the sound, Lilia announced, “The finale approaches—one final display.”

 

Impressed with his skill to this point, the crowd did not need much prompting. Their cheers transformed into encouraging shouts of “one more, one more, one more”.

 

_ Thank the Five. One final display _ . Yuri knew exactly what he could do. Ignoring the torches flickering around the Ice Dome, turning away from the embers burning on the dirt floor, he raised his arms high into the air and leaned back, twirling on a single skate. He reached deep inside him, calling on the blessings of the Second Son, the god of the oceans and of the ice on which Yuri stood. He needed no prayers—his gift was strong, his  _ mana _ manipulation perfect, but it seemed appropriate.

 

He took a deep breath and let it go. High above his head, the water tendrils shifted and shaped, starting at the base, and a familiar cracking caught his ears. Yuri brought his hands down with a flourish; all around him, the delighted shrieks of the crowd echoed beneath the Dome.

 

Panting with exertion, Yuri tilted his head back and admired his handiwork: above him, the tendrils of water, now refrozen, rose into a beautiful replica of a trio of doves.

 

**~ * ~ * ~ * ~**

 

Yuri woke with his mouth tasting of dirt. He reached out for a glass of water, finding it just within arm’s reach, and brought the edge to his lips. The water was cool and fresh; it whet his throat, quenched his thirst, and let him take a moment to orient himself.

 

He’d been having a nightmare. In it, he’d been navigating his way through a thick forest. Voices echoed to him from the trees, urging him to “ _ surrender, give up, come join us, Yuri _ .” He knew who those voices belonged to; the fallen King’s Chosen, his brothers in arms who had lost the  _ Bhelemons _ of centuries past. Yuri would  _ not _ join them.

 

Yuri pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead and leaned forward. Beneath the blankets he wore a pair of cotton undergarments and nothing else. He never felt cold. Growing up in the snowy lands of Moscow, he’d been accustomed to the harsh climate. And besides, elementals were capable of fluctuating their temperature to match their environment.

 

He hated that he couldn’t put a face to Lord Katsuki. Lord Nikiforov he would recognize in an instant— _ Smug, ugly bastard _ , he thought with a bitter frown. Yuri and Viktor had known each other their whole lives, under the strict wishes of the Temple of Five.

 

Yuri hated not having a face to put to his enemy. Lord Katsuki was a mystery.  _ No one _ had seen him—although there  _ were _ rumors. Some claimed he wore a black veil to hide a twisted, inhuman face, animal-like and scored with scratches. Others told that he wore a mask to hide how beautiful he was; that his handsome face had been offensive to the Five Sacred Gods.

 

Rumors. Nothing but unreliable, stupid rumors. Nothing Yuri could work with—nothing at all that could make his mission any easier. He needed to win  _ Bhelemon _ . He had to. And yet he couldn’t win against someone he knew  _ nothing _ about.

 

He kicked his sheets aside and took a long drink of water from the crystal glass at his bedside. The estate was quiet; he imagined all of Moscow was quiet. The position of the sunlight informed him that it was some time after noon, and he still had an entire day left to celebrate his birthday. He’d been taking a nap, it seemed, after such an impressive display of power.

 

“Good, you’re up.”

 

Yuri turned to the open door of his bedchamber and frowned at the figure standing in his doorway. Otabek Altin, a priest-in-training who’d been serving the Temple of Five in Moscow since he was five years old. He leaned against the doorframe, dark eyebrows raised, dressed in the stark white robes of the Temple. Twisted black tattoos rested on his wrists like lace-shaped bracelets.

 

“How long?” Yuri replied, scrubbing a hand down his face.

 

“Two hours,” Otabek replied with a shrug.

 

“Tch—longer than I would have liked.”

 

“That was impressive,” Otabek said, gesturing to the window. The storm clouds had vanished, the lingering waves of lightning dissipating into the delicate blues of the sky and the faint wisps of white clouds. “Everyone liked what you did.”

 

“Lilia’s going to scold me,” Yuri said with a sigh. “I didn’t use fire.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. The dreams had been getting worse—nightmarish images of twisted black trees and shadowed figures with serpents winding around their throats, laughing at him as he writhed in the dirt. Lilia had informed him that those were normal for elementals; once Viktor and Lord Katsuki were defeated in  _ Bhelemon _ and Yuri was crowned the High King, the nightmares would die with them.

 

Otabek brought him over a long cloak made of dark blue silk; Yuri slipped it on without a word, brushing his long, gold hair back and letting it fall around his shoulders. Less than a year. He had less than a year to prepare for  _ Bhelemon _ .

 

Yuri supposed he could have requested servants to do his hair for him. He preferred to do it alone. Since he was young, ever since the Temple saw the strength of his elemental gifts, he’d been under strict guard. After he’d been discovered as a King’s Chosen, he’d never been given a moment’s peace. The Temple priests, or the priests-in-training, were  _ always _ with him.

 

Otabek gestured for Yuri to step into the hall, and with a nod, he went along. Otabek was the one priest Yuri didn’t mind dealing with; he was quiet when Yuri wanted quiet, gave him space when Yuri wanted space, and seemed to know instinctively when Yuri needed him.

 

The usual handful of servants, priests, and nobles living in the vast estate of Moscow were gone; Yuri figured the celebration had continued to go on, even in his absence. Otabek followed half a foot behind him, hands folded in front of his waist, head bowed. Yuri  _ hated _ that. He wished Otabek could walk through the halls at his side without having to lower his head, but even as a King’s Chosen, he didn’t have much say in the behavior of the Temple priests.

 

Lilia would not be pleased with his performance. A stern, by-the-book woman, Lilia acted as a foster-matron to Yuri from the moment he could walk. Quite gifted in elemental  _ mana _ control herself, Lilia instructed and ordered and pushed Yuri to use every ounce of his power when he performed, to push his limits, pull out all the stops, and leave the world speechless.

 

In his own way, Yuri loved her, and he knew Lilia cared for him. Occasionally she graced him with praise for an exceptional job—but mostly her comments were limited to critiques on his physical stance or quips about how “the king crab she had at dinner last night could control water better than he could”. But Yuri did not feel dejected by her harsh statements. He needed them.  _ Bhelemon _ was a matter of life and death, not some paltry contest between strangers. The High Crown meant nothing. Winning  _ Bhelemon _ did not mean simply winning a crown and a kingdom.

 

Winning  _ Bhelemon _ meant living.

 

Losing meant  _ death _ .

 

Yuri could not afford to lose.

 

Otabek inclined his head as Yuri rounded the corner and came upon six tall priestesses in stark white robes. Hands clasped in front of their stomachs, Yuri noticed the same winding black tattooed on their wrists. “Your Highness,” one of the priestesses said, dipping her head in greeting.

 

Yuri nodded once. He never tried to make small-talk with the priests—Otabek was an exception, but out here in the halls he had to act as every other priest did, and regard Yuri as if he were a god rather than a mortal man.

 

Otabek stopped outside Lilia’s chamber and pressed his spine to the wooden wall. Raising his head, he took a quick look around the hall, saw they were alone, and turned to blink down at Yuri. “Want me to wait out here for you?”

 

“This could take a while,” Yuri muttered, thinking of the last lecture he’d had from Lilia about the placement of his feet during his water recital.

 

“I’ve got nothing better to do. I’ll repeat the  _ Sister’s Prayer _ three times—bet you’ll be out long before I get through the second reading. Then we could go out into town, if you want.”

 

Yuri pursed his lips. He did want to go out into town. It was his birthday—the last one he’d ever have unless he was well prepared for  _ Bhelemon _ —and he felt as though he deserved to enjoy it. He’d been meaning to go into town and visit with his grandfather, but with his birthday approaching and  _ Bhelemon _ right around the corner, traveling outside Moscow Estate had become next to impossible.

 

Otabek jerked his head to the door. “I’ll be out here when you finish.”

 

Yuri rapped on the door three times, and after a moment of quiet shuffling, he heard a deep, powerful voice call out, “Enter.” His hands reached for the brass handles, and he shot a desperate look at Otabek before going inside.

 

Lilia’s chambers were divided into three sections—a sprawling living space complete with plush green couches and a long table, for entertaining guests; a washroom studded with blue and white stones, and a small sleeping room Yuri had only seen once, when he was four years old.

 

He’d been frightened awake by a vicious nightmare of Viktor Nikiforov transforming into a bear and ripping his cheek open. He’d gone racing to Lilia, tears streaming, mucous dribbling from his nose. Lilia hadn’t scolded him; she permitted him to be a child, rather than a King’s Chosen, and tucked him into the safety of her robes and hummed a lullaby until he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

 

Lilia rose from the green couch and gestured for Yuri to have a seat. He poured him a cup of tea from a lovely gold teapot, and once he’d settled down and had a few sips, Lilia nestled herself back into her cushions. Even when she relaxed, her spine was straight. “You do not seem tired,” she commented. Her delicate hands lifted her own tea cup to her lips. “Perhaps I _ should _ have insisted you demonstrate fire.”

 

“Fire is my point of weakness,” Yuri admitted, chin raised, eyes narrowed. He would not be embarrassed. All he needed to do was work a bit longer with the Sister’s sacred element, and he was positive he’d succeed.

 

“We’ll increase your training.” Lilia set her teacup down on a small plate; the china clinked. “Though it might be difficult to make you an expert by  _ Bhelemon _ .”

 

Yuri folded his hands in his lap. He did not fear Lilia, but something about her set him on edge. She scrutinized him no matter what activity he partook in: if he slouched, she threw something at him until his spine straightened. If he shuffled along rather than glided, she sent a cascade of water to soak him. And even now, relaxing in her chambers, Yuri Plisetsky wasn’t allowed to  _ relax _ .

 

Lilia turned her head to look at the south wall of her chamber, and Yuri followed her gaze. A large mural rose against the wood; the original painter had captured the look of a fierce High King exceptionally well. Tall, thin, and watching carnage unfold with wild, black eyes, Yuri would recognize High King Yuriel Katsuki even if the lower half of his face had been obscured.

 

“Never understood why you have  _ his _ picture in here,” Yuri commented. He sipped his tea, wincing at the taste. Lilia added too much sugar to his. “He was Hasetsu’s winner two hundred years ago.”

 

“He started out in Moscow,” Lilia said with a dismissive wave. “Born and raised. His gifts came late; he wasn’t named a King’s Chosen until he was fifteen years old. Poison-swallower. Just like his descendant. You’ll have to fight Lord Katsuki in  _ Bhelemon _ , and believe me, Yura—if this boy is  _ anything _ like High King Yuriel, you’ll have your work cut out for you.”

 

Yuri looked away from the mural. High King Yuriel’s pitch black eyes terrified him. He prayed to the Father and the Second Son and the Sister that King Yuriel’s descendant did not have the same eyes.

 

“You are a powerful elemental, Yura,” Lilia went on. “The Five would not have made you powerful unless you were going to need that strength.  _ Bhelemon _ is upon us, and you will have to be ready.”

 

Yuri folded his hands in his lap. Outside the door, he heard Otabek’s robes shuffle.  _ Hmph. Repeat the Sister’s Prayer, my ass _ . Swallowing down fear and uncertainty, biting back the sudden swell of nightmares, Yuri looked Lilia straight in the face and said, “I’ll do whatever you ask of me. I am going to win  _ Bhelemon _ ; those bastards won’t know what hit them.”

 

“Good,” Lilia said, and she sat back against the couch with a smile on her stern face. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, we are finished with our exposition chapters and the introductions, and in the next chapter, we move into the full story. Yuuri and Viktor and Yuri/Yurio, three people fighting for their lives! And, of course, we have a case of mistaken identity that will result in some painful feels for both Yuuri and Viktor.
> 
> I would like to extend a huge thank-you to everyone who has supported me through this story. I'm enjoying writing each of my stories, and I cannot wait to keep writing more chapters.
> 
> My work schedule has granted me quite a bit of time to be able to write chapters. I'm planning on working a bit more on this story, wrapping up " _Miscommunication_ ", working on new chapters of " _ripped apart_ ", and then on a few other things that I am planning on posting later.
> 
> Here's hoping everyone has an amazing day; I look forward to seeing all of you in the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> And with that, the prologue comes to a smashing conclusion! In the next three chapters, which will be considerably longer than the prologue, the story will focus on introducing Yuuri, Viktor, and Yuri/Yurio, their powers and abilities, and the world in which they live. In other words, the obligatory exposition chapters, and then after that, we can dive right into the story and get to work on building up Yuuri and Viktor's secret relationship.
> 
> In this story, when referring to Yuuri Katsuki, I'll be using "Yuuri" for him, and "Yuri" will refer to Yurio. He will be referred to as "Yurio" on occasion, in later chapters after he and Yuuri Katsuki actually meet one another.
> 
> I'm off of work for the next three days, so hopefully I'll actually have time to sit down and hammer out a few chapter updates for this story, " _ripped apart_ " and " _Miscommunication_ " before I have to go back to work. My job is starting to wind down, hour-wise, so hopefully that means I'll have a chance to get back to doing the things that I love.
> 
> Thank you, everyone, for taking the time to read this prologue. I hope that you all will continue to enjoy this story as it is updated. I appreciate everyone who has sent me kudos, bookmarked, and/or subscribed to a story or series that I have worked on. It makes me very happy to know that I'm able to write stories that people enjoy—and tomorrow night, after I get off work, I hope to have more updated!
> 
> Have an awesome day, everyone. If you all get a chance, come check me out on tumblr and see some of the awesome stuff the _Yuri!!! On Ice_ fandom has to offer: _http://childrenoftheicerink.tumblr.com_. See you all again very soon!


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